The Return of a Faceless Man
by MythicRhyvon
Summary: Takes place around Season 7 Episode 5- Eastwatch. Arya has come home to Winterfell, though it doesn't feel as good as she had imagined it would. Bored and restless, the return of a familiar face is guaranteed to break up the monotony. [Jaqen/Arya] Oneshot. Sequel to A Man and a Lovely Girl.


Arya reclined in her childhood bed, feeling restless and confined. She'd been back in Winterfell for several weeks now, helping Sansa to prepare for the long winter and training with Breanne as often as the older woman would allow while they waited for news of the small group that had gone back beyond the wall. Despite everything that needed to be done, she still found herself with hours of time, with naught to do but think on the events already passed and those still yet to come.

A part of her wished she had chosen to go to Kings Landing first, if only because killing Cersei would be _something_ to do, a goal to achieve, something more than counting grain and calculating when, exactly, they would begin to starve. She still thought about it, every now and again. She understood why Jon went beyond the wall, understood why they needed the famed Dragon Queen on their side, but all the _waiting_ was driving her crazy.

A sigh wanted to pass her lips, and in the past, she may have let it. Now though, now she didn't even pay it conscious thought before she stifled the action. Instead, she lay still with her body relaxed, seeming to not have a care in the world. She lay there long enough that she drifted off eventually, though it wasn't a deep sleep- and hadn't been for some time.

So when the repetitive noise of a branch scraping against the stone wall far beneath her widow changed, she was immediately alert. She palmed the dagger resting beneath her pillow without changing her position in the bed or giving away the fact that she was awake, and then she waited.

She lay in the same position for several long minutes. She didn't hear anything else suspicious, and wondered if she might just be being paranoid, but her gut told her she wasn't. Sure enough, after another minute had passed, the faint sound of a shoe scuffing next to her bed gave away her intruders position and she moved without further hesitation.

The dagger was pulled free and she rolled to her feet with the same movement. She was engaging with the trespasser before her eyes were fully open, not needing to rely on her sight to meet him. As soon as she felt the firm stretch of muscle beneath his skin, she knew who it was that was in her room, even if the face was unfamiliar to her.

She knew by how quickly she was able to pin him to the wall that he allowed her to do so, face calm and that familiar mocking little smirk curling the corner of his otherwise unfamiliar mouth. She didn't care that she was in naught but a long night shift, modesty being a think of the distant past for her. She pressed a knee between his to keep him off balance and held her new valerian steel dagger against the delicate flesh beneath his jaw.

"Why are you here?" She demanded lowly.

"A man has business in Westeros." He replied calmly, as if he didn't have a Valerian Steel Dagger threatening his life.

"In Winterfell?" She pressed, pressing it just a bit harder.

"No."

"Then why are you here?" She asked again. A part of her knew she should be cautious, that despite everything she had learned, despite beating the Waif in one-on-one combat, this man was not someone she wanted to trifle with. When she'd left the house of Black and White, she'd expected an attack constantly in the weeks that followed, beginning the moment she'd turned her back to him. She couldn't imagine that they would just let her leave with all of the knowledge she now had, but no one had followed her. No one tried to kill her. It had all seemed too easy at the time, and she was now wondering if she'd relaxed too soon.

He moved suddenly, reversing their positions so quickly she hardly had time to react. When she looked up again, his familiar visage had returned and she felt a pooling of heat settle in her low in her abdomen. The Waif may have been more experienced than her, but her specialty had been in poisons and tonics more than physical combat (though every Faceless Man received training in all facets of death). Jaqen though, Jaqen was one of the best in the order. He was absolutely lethal, and despite everything she had learned, she knew she'd be practically helpless in the face of his full fury. That knowledge had never disturbed her, not even when she'd been a naive little girl who was bold enough to give a man his own name and then stood firm before his quiet anger.

Lucky for her, her death didn't seem to be what he was interested in. That familiar, teasing, smirk curled one side of his mouth and she suddenly felt the warmth of his hands against her slender, but firm, waist through the thin fabric covering her. The moved slowly up her rib cage and then up to her shoulders, skirting around the peaks rising against the front of her loose shirt.

His fingers teased the underside of her arms and he ran his own hands gently along the length of them, encouraging her to straight them, and then to lift them up above her with the unhurried motion. When his hands reached hers, she allowed her fingers to open and the knife to drop to the floor with a clatter. A second later and he had her wrists held pressed against the wall above her head. The position caused her shift to rise higher up her thighs and she could feel her blood surging hotter still.

His smirk became more smug, though anyone who didn't know him likely wouldn't see the small shift. She did, though, and she decided it was enough of that. She rose to her tip-toes and was the one to initiate the press of their lips. He ducked down lower, deepening the kiss and shifting so that both her small wrist were held in one of his lager hands while the other dropped back to the bare stretch of thigh.

She allowed the touch for a moment and then used his small distraction to step into him, wrapping her right leg around the back of his left and then pushing forward so that he was forced to trip over the limb. He could have saved himself from the fall if he truly wanted to, but instead released her hands on reflex, reaching back to brake their fall as she'd known he would. Truly, he was quite chivalrous.

When the two had settled, Jaqen lay on his back on the plush rug that covered the stone floor, while Arya straddled his waist. Her loose white shirt settled to exposed most of one shoulder and had risen up to pool at the joint of her hips, barely covering her modesty. Her still short-ish hair had started coming free of its night braid and loose tendrils had fallen to frame her face. Both of her hands came to rest gently on his chest, while his own came up to once again settle on the bare flesh of her legs, unperturbed with the change in position.

This time, it was her that grabbed his wrists and pushed them against the floor above his head. He allowed the motion, amusement spiking once more across his normally stoic countenance. It had been a long time since they'd been in a similar position, and Arya took a moment to just enjoy the sensation of having him there and solid against her.

They'd come together this way many times before, but it had always gone unspoken and uncommented on. She wasn't a silly little girl who needed a suiter to lavish her with gifts and silken words. No, she felt the most alive when she'd successfully learned a new skill, or completed a new task. She felt a different type of heat take her after she'd given the gift, one brought on by the desire to prove to herself that she was still alive, even if everyone she'd ever known was likely already in deaths relm.

They were two sides of the same coin, Jaqen and her. They understood each other in a way that didn't need to be spoken aloud. He'd met her as a girl and watched her grow into a woman- _helped_ her grown into the woman she was today. The encounters of this nature had only started a few moons before her departure, when she'd finished the initial part of her training and had been granted her first mission. He hadn't touched her before that, not sexually, though she'd received training in that area as well, having spent several weeks in a Braavosi brothel observing the workers and clients both. Despite her time there and in a few other less than reputable establishments, he remained the only man she'd lain with. Though she'd never actually told him that, she suspected he knew. He seemed to know everything- a fact she'd had to adjust to long before they began sharing a bed.

He was as detached with her in public as he always had been, but was a bit freer with his expression when the two were alone. He had a wicked sense of humor buried under all that stoicism, and she took great pleasure in being one of the very few people he shared that part of himself with.

If she were honest, he was the reason she'd stayed so long at the house. She was drawn to him enough to build a life for herself there, and could happily have stayed if not for the going-ons back in Westeros, the news that more of her family was alive then she knew or let herself believe. Her family came first, she was a Stark, a Direwolf, and wolves needed to be with their pack. She thought a part of him might understand that too, because he let her leave in the first place when he really should have given her the gift for defecting.

Regardless of the mess that their already odd relationship had become with her departure, he was there with her now. It might be the last time, and she was going to take advantage of that. So she leaned down and nipped at his bottom lip before kissing him again. His hands pulled free from her loose hold and moved to rest once again on her silky thighs. He caressed her softly before running the calloused appendages further up to cup and kneed the firm flesh of her bottom. The shirt rose with the motion, leaving her backside exposed to the air.

He used the hold to pull her closer still, returning her kiss with fervor and allowing the his quiet passion for her to come to the forefront. It was unhurried, though not lacking desire by any means, as they came together right there on the thick rug.

When they'd finished, Arya came to rest pressed against the length of him, her right knee pulled up to rest across his own legs and her head pillowed on his shoulder. They still hadn't spoken since their initial greeting, though now Arya wished to press for more answers and wondered if he'd give her any. Her fingers absently ran along the familiar patchwork of old scars that decorated his muscular chest as her mind turned over all her mashed up thoughts.

"I can feel your thoughts racing, lovely girl." He spoke, voice deep and gravely. "Why don't you share them with a man."

She propped herself up on one elbow to look down at him thoughtfully. Her other hand still rested on his chest. She noticed then that her skin had begun losing its bronze glow and was much paler when compared to his own flesh. She truly looked like a Northerner once again. "I still don't know why you're here." She finally said, voice soft.

"Don't you?" He pressed.

Their eyes met, but before they could continue speaking, a clamor came from the hallway outside her room. Her sisters voice was loud and excited through the thick wood. "Arya! Get dressed, Jon has returned!" It sounded as if the older woman tried to open the door, but luckily Arya had taken to locking it whenever she wanted to be undisturbed. "Arya!" She exclaimed again when she realized she couldn't enter.

"Go." Jaqen stated. "Greet your brother. We can talk later."

She kept eye contact for another long moment, but a harsh pounding against the wood drew her attention once more. "I'm awake, give me a second!" She finally exclaimed back, annoyance barely hidden in her tone. She pushed herself to her feet and began dressing, unabashed by her company. Surprisingly, he hadn't disappeared with the interruption, but rather had begun casually pulling back on his own clothes.

He stood in the shadows when she was ready to exit the room, and she moved to stand in front of him once more. "You'll be here when I return?" She questioned. He dipped his head once in acknowledgement. She didn't kiss him again, for it wasn't their way to be casually affectionate outside the joining of their flesh. No, she simply nodded in return, shot him a small, but honest, smile and then turned and left the room. He watched her departure from the shadows where he casually leaned against the cool stone wall.

~*~ END ~*~

I've heard that Jaqen's character is going to return in Season 8. I wrote this little one-shot to satisfy my own hopes for the future. I may turn this into a small series of one-shots, depending on how the next couple of episodes go. This season is soo good! I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!


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